


Vagus

by Rivers



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivers/pseuds/Rivers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short little ficlet on Post-Reichenbach happenings, inspired by a comic on cascara's Tumblr (http://cas-cara.tumblr.com/post/16144861195/one-more-miracle-sherlock-high-res-ver). </p>
<p>Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vagus

It is exactly two months since Sherlock stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s, and his subsequent post-mortem. John sits in front of his desk, poring over his medical journals; it seems easier when he is working, the impartiality of clinical trials and statistics bringing his consciousness further from an invisible wound that would not heal.

_Why_ , John had asked himself over and over again. _Why did he do it, why did he lie to me_. He suspected it had to do with Moriarty, but as the consultant criminal had apparently vanished into thin air, John was left slowly seething with impotent anger and a grief that could not be bourne out by human language. If he were Sherlock, he would know what to do. Know the right people to find, the right questions to ask. But he’s not Sherlock. Sherlock is dead, gone, in an advanced stage of decay under six feet of dirt, a brilliant mind and his best friend becoming magnesium and potassium and calcium, feeding the grass and the insects around his grave.

John realizes that he has in fact been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes, and none of the content has permeated. He sits back and presses his eyes with a hand until he sees stars - and a wave of deja vu hits him like a frieght train.

Sherlock refusing to extract the human tongue from the vegetable crisper.

Sherlock shooting at the yellow graffiti on the wall.

Sherlock walking into the flat with a harpoon and covered in blood.

Sherlock composing a violin concerto after identifying Irene’s body.

Sherlock’s exultant yell as he hears of a museum burglary of paintings of a waterfall.

Little fragments of memory of times when Sherlock had made John rub his face in frustration, if not physically then (barely contained) within his head.

Memories all so vivid, John half expects the doorbell to ring - Lestrade, to give Sherlock the waterfall case. Or Sherlock, back from Minsk, one small weekend suitcase and a ton of reproachful comments about wasted time.

John laughs mirthlessly at his own silliness. If only. If only time could be rewritten, if only the impossible were possible.

_One more miracle, Sherlock. For me._

 

A shrill vibrating sound cuts through his thoughts.

The doorbell. It rang.

John’s mind is still suspended in disbelief when he finds himself nearly tripping down the stairs, blood roaring in his ears and his heart beating triple time.

It can’t be. Can it?

The final miracle?

 

He opens the door with a name at the tip of his tongue, and no one is there.

 

On the first floor of 198 Baker Street, Jim studies the face of his companion carefully. _Was that necessary,_ he wants to ask, but something in the light of the other’s eyes tells him to do so would trigger a long and tedious argument.

Instead he asks, ”Was that… wise?”

Sherlock turns to him, and it’s like looking at a raw, dissected heart; all exposed atriums and ventricles and blood. Jim has never seen anything as beautiful.

“Sometimes, intelligence is irrelevant,” Sherlock murmurs as his nemesis pulls him down for a biting kiss.


End file.
